From the veins in your arms, to the freckles on your nose, you are beautiful.
And for now you’re just a warm, sloppy poem of mine.
I realize that I’m drunk, and that we’re young and that we’re old all at the same time.
You mention something about love and something about drugs,
and I just kiss your mouth or place a hand on your thigh and laugh.
We laugh it off.
It’s early and its cold outside and we’re worried about money, but spending it anyway.
This is nice, I think.
This is okay...I think.
You bite my lips and I tell you “baby, that hurts”, and you apologize and kiss me softly.
I tell you that I’ll miss you one day and you ask me if I’m crying,
with a finger on my cheek in search for tears, knowing that no matter what, I’ll just lie.
You trust me.
